If I didn't look at his eyes.
Peewee said slowly, "There's one other thing—"
"What?"
"I hate to suggest it. You might think I was running out on you."
"Don't be silly. If you've got an idea, spill it."
"Well . . . there's Tombaugh Station, over that way about forty miles. If my space suit is in the ship—"
I suddenly quit feeling like Bowie at the Alamo. Maybe the game would go an extra period—"We can walk it!"
She shook her head. "No, Kip. That's why I hesitated to mention it. I can walk it... if we find my suit. But you couldn't wear my suit even if you squatted."
"I don't need your suit," I said impatiently.
"Kip, Kip! This is the Moon, remember? No air."
"Yes, yes, sure! Think I'm an idiot? But if they locked up your suit, they probably put mine right beside it and—"
"You've got a space suit?" she said incredulously.
Our next remarks were too confused to repeat but finally Peewee was convinced that I really did own a space suit, that in fact the only reason I was sending on the space-operations band twelve hours and a quarter of a million miles back was that I was wearing it when they grabbed me.
"Let's tear the joint apart!" I said. "No—show me that air lock, then you take it apart."
"All right."
She showed me the lock, a room much like the one we had been cooped in, but smaller and with an inner door built to take a pressure load. It was not locked. We opened it cautiously. It was empty, and its outer door was closed or we would never been able to open the inner. I said, "If Wormface had been a suspenders-and-belt man, he would have left the outer door open, even though he had us locked up. Then—Wait a second! Is there a way to latch the inner door open?"
"I don't know."
"We'll see." There was, a simple hook. But to make sure that it couldn't be unlatched by button-pushing from outside I wedged it with my knife. "You're sure this is the only air lock?"
"The other ship had only one and I'm pretty certain they are alike."
"We'll keep our eyes open. Nobody can get at us through this one. Even old Wormface has to use an air lock."
"But suppose he opens the outer door anyhow?" Peewee said nervously. "We'd pop like balloons."
I looked at her and grinned. "Who is a genius? Sure we would . . . if he did. But he won't. Not with twenty, twenty-five tons of pressure holding it closed. As you reminded me, this is the Moon. No air outside, remember?"
"Oh." Peewee looked sheepish.
So we searched. I enjoyed wrecking doors; Wormface wasn't going to like me. One of the first things we found was a smelly little hole that Fatty and Skinny lived in. The door was not locked, which was a shame. That room told me a lot about that pair. It showed that they were pigs, with habits as unattractive as their morals. The room also told me that they were not casual prisoners; it had been refitted for humans. Their relationship with Wormface, whatever it was, had gone on for some time and was continuing. There were two empty racks for space suits, several dozen canned rations of the sort sold in military-surplus stores, and best of all, there was drinking water and a washroom of sorts—and something more precious than fine gold or frankincense if we found our suits: two charged bottles of oxy-helium.
I took a drink, opened a can of food for Peewee—it opened with a key; we weren't in the predicament of the Three Men in a Boat with their tin of pineapple—told her to grab a bite, then search that room. I went on with my giant toad sticker; those charged air bottles had given me an unbearable itch to find our suits—and get out!—before Wormface returned.
I smashed a dozen doors as fast as the Walrus and the Carpenter opened oysters and found all sorts of things, including what must have been living quarters for wormfaces. But I didn't stop to look—the Space Corps could do that, if and when—I simply made sure that there was not a space suit in any of them And found them!—in a compartment next to the one we had been prisoners in.
I was so glad to see Oscar that I could have kissed him. I shouted, "Hi, Pal! Mirabile visu!" and ran to get Peewee. My feet went out from under me again but I didn't care.
Peewee looked up as I rushed in. "I was just going to look for you."
"Got it! Got it!"
"You found the Mother Thing?" she said eagerly.
"Huh? No, no! The space suits—yours and mine! Let's go!"
"Oh." She looked disappointed and I felt hurt. "That's good... but we have to find the Mother Thing first."
I felt tried beyond endurance. Here we had a chance, slim but real, to escape a fate-worse-than-death (I'm not using a figure of speech) and she wanted to hang around to search for a bug-eyed monster. For any human being, even a stranger with halitosis, I would have done it. For a dog or cat I would, although reluctantly.
But what was a bug-eyed monster to me? All this one had done was to get me into the worst jam I had ever been in.
I considered socking Peewee and stuffing her into her suit. But I said, "Are you crazy? Were leaving—right now!"
"We can't go till we find her."
"Now I know you're crazy. We don't even know she's here... and if we do find her, we can't take her with us."
"Oh, but we will!"
"How? This is the Moon, remember? No air. Got a space suit for her?"
"But—" That stonkered her. But not for long. She had been sitting on the floor, holding the ration can between her knees. She stood up suddenly, bouncing a little, and said, "Do as you like; I'm going to find her. Here." She shoved the can at me.
I should have used force. But I am handicapped by training from early childhood never to strike a female, no matter how richly she deserves it. So the opportunity and Peewee both slid past while I was torn between common sense and upbringing. I simply groaned helplessly.
Then I became aware of an unbearably attractive odour. I was holding that can. It contained boiled shoe leather and grey gravy and smelled ambrosial.
Peewee had eaten half; I ate the rest while looking at what she had found. There was a coil of nylon rope which I happily put with the air bottles; Oscar had fifty feet of clothesline clipped to his belt but that had been a penny-saving expedient. There was a prospector's hammer which I salvaged, and two batteries which would do for headlamps and things.
The only other items of interest were a Government Printing Office publication titled Preliminary Report on Selenology, a pamphlet on uranium prospecting, and an expired Utah driver's license for "Timothy Johnson"—I recognized the older man's mean face. The pamphlets interested me but this was no time for excess baggage.
The main furniture was two beds, curved like contour chairs and deeply padded; they told me that Skinny and Fatty had ridden this ship at high acceleration.
When I had mopped the last of the gravy with a finger, I took a big drink, washed my hands—using water lavishly because I didn't care if that pair died of thirst—grabbed my plunder and headed for the room where the space suits were.
As I got there I ran into Peewee. She was carrying the crowbar and looking overjoyed. "I found her!"
"Where?"
"Come on! I can't get it open, I'm not strong enough."
I put the stuff with our suits and followed her. She stopped at a door panel farther along the corridor than my vandalism had taken me. "In there!"
I looked and I listened. "What makes you think so?"
"I know! Open it!"
I shrugged and got to work with the nutpick. The panel went sprung! and that was that.
Curled up in the middle of the floor was a creature.
So far as I could tell, it might or might not have been the one I had seen in the pasture the night before. The light had been poor, the conditions very different, and my examination had ended abruptly. But Peewee was in no doubt. She launched herself through the air with a squeal of joy and the two rolled over and over like kittens play-fighting.
Peewee was making sounds of joy, more or less in English. S
o was the Mother Thing, but not in English. I would not have been surprised if she had spoken English, since Wormface did and since Peewee had mentioned things the Mother Thing had told her. But she didn't.
Did you ever listen to a mockingbird? Sometimes singing melodies, sometimes just sending up a joyous noise unto the Lord? The endlessly varied songs of a mockingbird are nearest to the speech of the Mother Thing.
At last they held still, more or less, and Peewee said "Oh, Mother Thing, I'm so happy!"
The creature sang to her. Peewee answered, "Oh. I'm forgetting my manners. Mother Thing, this is my dear friend Kip."
The Mother Thing sang to me—and I understood.
What she said was: "I am very happy to know you, Kip."
It didn't come out in words. But it might as well have been English. Nor was this half-kidding self-deception, such as my conversations with Oscar or Peewee's with Madame Pompadour—when I talk with Oscar I am both sides of the conversation; it's just my conscious talking to my subconscious, or some such. This was not that.
The Mother Thing sang to me and I understood.
I was startled but not unbelieving. When you see a rainbow you don't stop to argue the laws of optics. There it is, in the sky.
I would have been an idiot not to know that the Mother Thing was speaking to me because I did understand and understood her every time. If she directed a remark at Peewee alone, it was usually just birdsongs to me but if it was meant for me, I got it.
Call it telepathy if you like, although it doesn't seem to be what they do at Duke University. I never read her mind and I don't think she read mine. We just talked.
But while I was startled, I minded my manners. I felt the way I do when Mother introduces me to one of her older grande-dame friends. So I bowed and said, "We're very happy that we've found you, Mother Thing."
It was simple, humble truth. I knew, without explanation, what it was that had made Peewee stubbornly determined to risk recapture rather than give up looking for her—the quality that made her "the Mother Thing."
Peewee has this habit of slapping names on things and her choices aren't always apt, for my taste. But I'll never question this one. The Mother Thing was the Mother Thing because she was. Around her you felt happy and safe and warm. You knew that if you skinned your knee and came bawling into the house, she would kiss it well and paint it with merthiolate and everything would be all right. Some nurses have it and some teachers . . . and, sadly, some mothers don't.
But the Mother Thing had it so strongly that I wasn't even worried by Wormface. We had her with us so everything was going to be all right. Logically I knew that she was as vulnerable as we were—I had seen them strike her down. She didn't have my size and strength, she couldn't pilot this ship as Peewee had been able to. It didn't matter.
I wanted to crawl into her lap. Since she was too small and didn't have a lap, I would gratefully hold her in mine, anytime.
I have talked more about my father but that doesn't mean that Mother is less important—just different. Dad is active, Mother is passive; Dad talks, Mother doesn't. But if she died, Dad would wither like an uprooted tree. She makes our world.
The Mother Thing had the effect on me that Mother has, only I'm used to it from Mother. Now I was getting it unexpectedly, far from home, when I needed it.
Peewee said excitedly, "Now we can go, Kip. Let's hurry!"
The Mother Thing sang: ("Where are we going, children?")
"To Tombaugh Station, Mother Thing. They'll help us."
The Mother Thing blinked her eyes and looked serenely sad. She had great, soft, compassionate eyes—she looked more like a lemur than anything else but she was not a primate—she wasn't even in our sequence, unearthly. But she had these wonderful eyes and a soft, defenceless mouth out of which music poured. She wasn't as big as Peewee and her hands were tinier still-six fingers, any one of which could oppose the others the way our thumbs can. Her body—well, it never stayed the same shape so it's hard to describe, but it was right for her.
She didn't wear clothes but she wasn't naked; she had soft, creamy fur, sleek and fine as chinchilla. I thought at first she didn't wear anything, but presently I noticed a piece of jewellery, a shiny triangle with a double spiral in each corner. I don't know what made it stick on.
I didn't take all this in at once. At that instant the expression in the Mother Thing's eyes brought a crash of sorrow into the happiness I had been feeling.
Her answer made me realize that she didn't have a miracle ready:
("How are we to fly the ship? They have guarded me most carefully this time.")
Peewee explained eagerly about the space suits and I stood there like a fool, with a lump of ice in my stomach. What had been just a question of using my greater strength to force Peewee to behave was now an unsolvable dilemma. I could no more abandon the Mother Thing than I could have abandoned Peewee . . . and there were only two space suits.
Even if she could wear our sort, which looked as practical as roller skates on a snake.
The Mother Thing gently pointed out that her own vacuum gear had been destroyed. (I'm going to quit writing down all her songs; I don't remember them exactly anyhow.)
And so the fight began. It was an odd fight, with the Mother Thing gentle and loving and sensible and utterly firm, and Peewee throwing a tearful, bad-little-girl tantrum—and me standing miserably by, not even refereeing.
When the Mother Thing understood the situation, she analyzed it at once to the inevitable answer. Since she had no way to go (and probably couldn't have walked that far anyhow, even if she had had her sort of space suit) the only answer was for us two to leave at once. If we reached safety, then we would, if possible, convince our people of the danger from Wormface & Co.—in which case she might be saved as well... which would be nice but was not indispensable.
Peewee utterly, flatly, and absolutely refused to listen to any plan which called for leaving the Mother Thing behind. If the Mother Thing couldn't go, she wouldn't budge. "Kip! You go get help! Hurry! I'll stay here."
I stared at her. "Peewee, you know I can't do that."
"You must. You will so! You've got to. If you don't, I'll... I'll never speak to you again!"
"If I did, I'd never speak to myself again. Look, Peewee, it won't wash. You'll have to go—"
"No!"
"Oh, shut up for a change. You go and I stay and guard the door with the shillelagh. I'll hold 'em off while you round up the troops. But tell them to hurry!"
"I—" She stopped and looked very sober and utterly baffled. Then she threw herself on the Mother Thing, sobbing: "Oh, you don't love me any more!"
Which shows how far her logic had gone to pot. The Mother Thing sang softly to her while I worried the thought that our last chance was trickling away while we argued. Wormface might come back any second—and while I hoped to slug him a final one if he got in, more likely he had resources to outmanoeuvre me. Either way, we would not escape.
At last I said, "Look, we'll all go."
Peewee stopped sobbing and look startled. "You know we can't."
The Mother Thing sang: ("How, Kip?")
"Uh, I'll have to show you. Up on your feet, Peewee." We went where the suits were, while Peewee carried Madame Pompadour and half carried the Mother Thing. Lars Eklund, the rigger who had first worn Oscar according to his log, must have weighed about two hundred pounds; in order to wear Oscar I had to strap him tight to keep from bulging. I hadn't considered retailoring him to my size as I was afraid I would never get him gas-tight again. Arm and leg lengths were okay; it was girth that was too big.
There was room inside for both the Mother Thing and me.
I explained, while Peewee looked big-eyed and the Mother Thing sang queries and approvals. Yes, she could hang on piggy-back—and she couldn't fall off, once we were sealed up and the straps cinched.
"All right. Peewee, get into your suit." I went to get my socks while she started to suit up. When I came back I checke
d her helmet gauges, reading them backwards through her lens. "We had better give you some air. You're only about half full."
I ran into a snag. The spare bottles I had filched from those ghouls had screw-thread fittings like mine—but Peewee's bottles had bayonet-and-snap joints. Okay, I guess, for tourists, chaperoned and nursed and who might get panicky while bottles were changed unless it was done fast—but not so good for serious work. In my workshop I would have rigged an adapter in twenty minutes. Here, with no real tools—well, that spare air might as well be on Earth for all the good it did Peewee.
For the first time, I thought seriously of leaving them behind while I made a fast forced march for help. But I didn't mention it. I thought that Peewee would rather die on the way than fall back into his hands—and I was inclined to agree.
"Kid," I said slowly, "that isn't much air. Not for forty miles." Her gauge was scaled in time as well as pressure; it read just under five hours. Could Peewee move as fast as a trotting horse? Even at lunar gravity? Not likely.
She looked at me soberly. "That's calibrated for full-size people. I'm little—I don't use much air."
"Uh . . . don't use it faster than you have to."
"I won't. Let's go."
I started to close her gaskets. "Hey!" she objected.
"What's the matter?"
"Madame Pompadour! Hand her to me—please. On the floor by my feet."
I picked up that ridiculous dolly and gave it to her. "How much air does she take?"
Peewee suddenly dimpled. "I'll caution her not to inhale." She stuffed it inside her shirt, I sealed her up. I sat down in my open suit, the Mother Thing crept up my back, singing reassuringly, and cuddled close. She felt good and I felt that I could hike a hundred miles, to get them both safe.
Getting me sealed in was cumbersome, as the straps had to be let out and then tightened to allow for the Mother Thing, and neither Peewee nor I had bare hands. We managed.
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